


You live. And you're supposed to learn. But see here; He didn't.

by CescaLR



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, All the warnings you'd expect for this character tbh, F/M, Gen, Swearing, is prevalent, that's about it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9423155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: Jackson returns.It's a year after he left, and things have changed. A lot.Jackson? Doesn't much care.He'll have to, though, in the end. Unless he wants to go Omega. And Crazy, with a capital C.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *Sings* Probably never going to continue thissss-
> 
> Hello! This got stuck in my head and wouldn't let me go... a little while back? Like a few weeks or so, lmfao. Here it is, a little touched up. Changed a few words here or there... pretty much the only story that was proofread before posting that I've put on here tbh.  
> Oh well.

The day of Jackson’s plane ride back to _goddamn fucking_ Beacon Hills, California (yeah, that arse – _ass_ hole place… fuck, one year in England is one year too long) is chaotic.

His parents – adoptive though they may be – are hurrying around, fussing and packing and asking inane questions like _have you said all your goodbyes, son?_ And _dear, did you finish packing? I could have sworn I saw your lacrosse stick in the hall…_

And so on, so forth.

Jackson is already tired of this bullshit. Seriously, it would be bril- _good_ if his non-biological parents would shut the fuck up and let him rest.

Outside. Leaning against his Porsche. Shut up he isn’t posing.

With a sigh (and definitely not a dramatic removal of his rather unnecessary sunglasses; I mean come on this _is_ London we’re talking about here), Jackson wanders (strides, confident; bravado) back into the house. He walks upstairs, and looks for the last time into his shitty, tiny (okay, so maybe it isn’t tiny, but it’s three-quarters the size of his old room, back in Beacon Hills, Beacon County, California) bedroom, which has over the last week been stripped bare of any personality.

The walls are plain white, the rugs have been removed to uncover plain wooden floorboards, and there isn’t even an obvious groove in the walls of his ‘closet’ – where he’d been locked up during the full moons.

He supposes people will just have to wonder why the walls of the small, empty room are reinforced and soundproofed. He doesn’t much care; screw them, he’s a fucking Werewolf.

(As much as he’d… _‘loved’_ Lydia Martin, it wasn’t the kind that would anchor his humanity. Consider the fact that it is what fixed his Kanima situation by turning him into a werewolf… and there you have _why._ )

With another sigh, Jackson picked up his three bags; he slung the duffle containing lacrosse equipment over his shoulder, slung the backpack over his other one, and held the suitcase’s handle in his free right hand.

He lifted this all with ease. Jackson’s gotta say, this werewolf shit is pretty… useful.

(Cool. It’s cool, and he’s at least grown enough to admit this to himself.)

When wandering down the hallway, to meet his parents at the front door, he grabs the lacrosse stick that was leaning on the left wall – after making sure his backpack wouldn’t slip, of course.

He glanced in the mirror and adjusted his bags before nodding and heading downstairs.

Appearances are important, after all. Considering last year showed him how much of his own persona was bravado, they mattered even more than they used to.

(Though he’d never admit this. He’s seventeen, a year certainly isn’t enough to mentally face his own demons.)

(He’s not sure it would be for anyone, of any age. But he’s fine and everything, so fuck off.)

His mother, the doting lady that she is, smiles and leaves the house and gets in the passenger seat.

“You alright son?” His father says, questioning. And of course he is, what does the man take him for?

(They’re only going back to a town that houses his deepest scars, and worst memories; his most painful regrets. So yes, Jackson is perfectly fine. _What does he take him for? A wuss?)_

Jackson smiles at his dad, however, and the man nods. “Alright, Jackson. Here, let me-” But Jackson gracefully dodges the man’s attempts to take a bag and the lacrosse stick, because he’s a frickin’ werewolf, and that means he’s perfectly capable of carrying this many bags, whilst having it look both good _and_ effortless.

Jackson easily drops the bags carelessly into the boot, takes one last look around the street – sneers at a few neighbours, because nobody said his personality and behaviour had improved even _slightly_ over the year – and gets in the back of the car, puts in his earphones and settles for ignoring his parents the whole drive to the airport.

His Lawyer father smiles in the rear-view mirror, and turns on the ignition.

“I’ll be glad to go home.” His mother says, wistfully. “It’ll be good to see my friends in person, after so long…”

She smiles at Jackson via the rear-view mirror as well.

“Isn’t it going to be great, seeing your friends again Jackson?”

Jackson snorts. The ride afterwards is, of course, silent.

The plane journey was, as per usual, as high class as humanly possible.

The kind with individual seats, and pillows and TVs/DVD players, and headphone jacks and the best of sparkling water.

Jackson knew he looked smug. He also knew the light from the window cast his face in the most _perfect_ shadows, so he was inclined to keep it open… except it was interfering with the movie he’d decided upon, and – as per usual – a few people were staring.

With a reluctant sigh (because Jackson never pretended not to like attention) he closed the window and pulled the separation curtain slightly.

He settled in, and watched the movie.

As was to be expected, the movie sucked and Jackson _loved it._

He would never admit this, of course, but Jackson may or may not have a liking for terrible movies.

(And, damn Lydia; that also includes terrible chick flicks. Damn her. Damn her multiple times.)

The acting was crappy to the point of hilariousness, the writing was so stilted he’s pretty sure it can’t have been written by a human, and the fact that _nobody talks like that,_ and also the supernatural they used was so butchered beyond belief he was having trouble not dissing it aloud – of course, he wouldn’t, because he’d be branded as incredibly crazy, but still.

He’s not going to mention the movie by name, not even in his own head – but it was a ridiculous one, and there were stupid ‘werewolves’ which were more just plain shape-shifters, and that’s all he’s even going to think about that.

Jackson liked to think of it as a brilliant comedy. That way his liking of it wouldn’t be so embarrassing.

He was a little disappointed when he found they didn’t have the sequels, but honestly he was also relieved because his reputation with himself could be sullied no further.

And so instead he watched _the best_ movie _of all time,_ no exceptions.

And he watched it multiple times, because Lydia wasn’t there to stop him.

(He did certainly _not_ watch the notebook after as some misplaced feeling of sentiment. Definitely not.)

Jackson decided he was bored enough to sleep, then, because planes were actually really dull when you’ve exhausted the things you can do on them.

(He’s not a _nerd._ He doesn’t have any video games with him, because all the ones he plays require you to be _online,_ and, you know, _have a social life._ )

Mentally shrugging, (why would he do so outwardly?), Jackson settles himself in for sleep.

And so he does. What Jackson wants to do, he’s always done.

(Damn the consequences. Though that sounds slightly ominous for sleeping on a plane, in retrospect. He’s talking about, of course, getting bitten in the first place.

(He still had nightmares about that smile. He would never admit it.))

* * *

 

When the plane was nearing its landing, Jackson was woken by one of the stewardesses. He dismissed her (rather rudely) and she walked off, scoffing.

(Like what’s been said – Jackson’s behaviour wasn’t about to change utterly in only a year.)

As the date the flight had been scheduled to arrive for was Saturday, November the eighteenth, and there had been no delays, Jackson was sure that it was safe to assume that was the date.

Which meant he had – what, two days, until he has to go back to Beacon Hills High.

Without any preamble. Or warning. Or any kind of message to anyone he knew.

Aside from Danny. But then, Danny was gone for a reason, despite Jackson’s hidden wishes for that not to be the case.

Rather, Danny had graduated early, been offered some sort of job, and promptly disappeared from the face of the earth. Privately, Jackson violently disapproves – but eh. He can’t really _do_ anything, and Danny’s life is his to live. If he wants to work with some secret agency, that’s his decision.

(His hacking talents are better put to use there anyway.

Also, it just so happens to be much safer than beacon hills. That too.)

So, in short – Jackson has no-one, and no-one knows he’s back.

But that’s unimportant right then. His father and mother hurry down the aisle and usher him along with them. The arrivals process goes off without a hitch, and in a whirlwind of papers and bags and other things he finds himself standing in front of his _beloved, actual_ Porsche (he’d had a temporary one back in London… but it wasn’t really the same. For one, it didn’t have his personalised number plate.).

“Follow us in the car. Or you can drive around town and tell people you’re back, I’m sure they’d love to know – you remember where the house is, right?” His clueless mother asks. “Of course,” He scoffs. “I’ll see you later.” He adds, before getting into the car and driving off, sans a goodbye.

For a while, Jackson drives. He doesn’t really know if he’s going anywhere in particular, but he still drives. He passes by all the places he remembers, just to see if a year away has tarnished his instinctive knowledge of the routes to and from certain spots – but it hasn’t, and he can drive from the school to the hospital to the sheriff’s station to the shopping mall and round again with little to no trouble. Throughout this, he watches the people – picks faces he remembers out of the crowd, and he’s sure some recognise the vehicle, even if they can’t see inside to recognise him.

He’s also rather glad he’s defaulted back into the American driving system. The English one was pretty backwards, if he does say so himself.

Jackson is driving past the hospital again when an annoyingly familiar Jeep drives up to it, and parks hastily.

The driver actually _isn’t_ the person he’s expecting – some girl he doesn’t know, about their age – and she gets out, strides around to the other side and opens the door.

The person he actually _did_ expect tumbles out, as useless as per usual – but that might be attributed to the cut – gash, rather – he can see on the teen’s forearm, due to the rolled up sleeve of his dark check shirt.

Jackson finds himself sinking into the seat as he spies. This is ridiculous, because he doesn’t even care even _slightly,_ but he does have to admit he’s curious.

He hears them, the voices wafting to him on the wind and he’s glad of his senses otherwise he’d have to guess at what they’re saying.

 _“I still don’t know why we came here.”_ Stilinski grumbles, annoyed or angry, possibly frustrated.

 _“Your arm’s bleeding.”_ The girl points out – obvious, but also the actual reason, for what he can gather.

 _“It’s not even that bad.”_ Stilinski complains. _“I could’ve just bandaged this at home and been done with it. ‘Sides, we’ve had way worse.”_

Jackson raises an eyebrow, but concedes that he can’t know what’s happened in the past year, and continues to listen.

 _“Scott insisted.”_ She says, as if it’s final. Jackson’s still curious as to who she even is.

 _“Right, forgot the big bad alpha called the shots.”_ Stilinski snarks back. _“Seriously, I’m fine. It’s not even bleeding!”_ He gestures wildly to his forearm, and yes he is correct. The wound is fresh, Jackson can smell that, but it isn’t bleeding, which is weird.

 _“Doesn’t matter.”_ The girl says. _“Besides, I can smell pain.”_

A werewolf then, Jackson surmises.

 _“Right, of course, chemo signals.”_ Stilinski mutters drily. _“because that’s not invasive.”_

She frowns, and he sighs.

 _“Sorry.”_ The teen apologises, but Jackson can’t really see why.

 _“I suppose we could just disinfect it and bandage it…”_ The girl sighs, muses. It seems she hadn’t really wanted to go to the hospital either.

 _“See? Logic.”_ Stilinski smiles. _“At least you see reason.”_

The girl near beams for a second, before it’s gone.

 _“Do you have a first aid kit?”_ She asks. He scoffs. _“Of course, in the back of the Jeep with the rest of the stuff non-weres need to fight the supernatural.”_

The girl nods. _“Oh, and Malia - there’s some disinfectant in one of the bags.”_ He calls after her, and okay, now he has a name.

Jackson’s had enough of stalking around the corner, just out of sight, and pulls into the car park.

 _“Ah, fuck, really?”_ He hears Stilinski mutter.

Jackson smirks, and gets out of the car.

“Jackson.” Stilinski says, drily. “What a wonderful surprise. Seriously, this day couldn’t get _any_ better.”

Of course, his words are near dripping with sarcasm – as per usual.

The girl arrives back, and Stilinski seems to remember he has a rather bad gash on his forearm, as he scowls.

Now he’s closer, Jackson can tell the other teen looks like shit. Paler than he used to be, eyes dark in that insomnia way, lips chapped a bit and just plain _ill_ looking.

Jackson blinks.

Stilinski does this weird thing, where he looks amused by turning the corners of his lips _down,_ and it’s not a nice expression.

“Shit’s gone down since you left, Jackson.” He says, conversationally – and yet, ominous in its delivery.

“Jackson?” ‘Malia’ asks.

“Werewolf, previously Kanima. Jackass.” Stilinski explains in short. “Used to date Lydia, and predictably was horrible to her. No-one likes him.”

Malia nods. Jackson’s a bit affronted by both the dismissive way he explained; as if Jackson wasn’t present to hear it, and the girl’s easy acceptance of Stilinski’s words as fact.

They’re not. Not really.

Sort of.

(More the truth than not, though he’d never admit that, not to anyone and certainly not to himself.)

Malia hands Stilinski the disinfectant, and the two of them busy themselves with quickly dealing with the gash.

“Might scar.” Malia says, and Jackson can detect the _slightest_ bit of concern in her voice.

“Nah.” Stilinski says, breezily. “Nothin’ ever scars, not really. I mean, my stomach’s all fine and dandy and _that_ got a dagger ripped through it.”

Jackson near balks in surprise. He would have done, if he hadn’t noticed Stilinski looking at him in his peripheral vision. He knows saying that was more to get a reaction out of Jackson than anything – though he supposes it’s also to reassure the girl.

Stilinski pulls the bandage tight, and Malia tapes it in place. Stilinski moves his arm to make sure it isn’t obstructing anything, then nods and turns.

“So, what brings the pretty and useless Jackson Whittemore back to this little town of horrors? I thought you got out, like Danny – except less cool and more PTSD.”

Stilinski is entirely blasé in his delivery, but Jackson can see the tension in the set of his shoulders and the slight narrowing of his eyes.

Jackson thinks maybe Stilinski’s gotten even _more_ quick to anger in the year-ish he’s been gone. That’s not even slightly a good thing.

(Jackson’s nose twinges. As much as it was hilarious to see the teen launch Lacrosse balls at his ‘best friend’ and fall to Jackson’s goading, it had been decidedly _less_ fun to be on the receiving end of a surprisingly strong punch. He hadn’t expected to be knocked down, is all – and he’s lucky it didn’t hit his nose, as he’s sure it would have broken.)

(But that’s both beside the point, _and_ humiliating, so he’ll conveniently forget that… incident.)

“I’m surprised, Stilinski, you almost sound _concerned._ ” He replies, faux surprised, and Stilinski _scowls,_ instantaneously, muscles tensing.

Malia places a hand on his arm – the not injured one – and glares in Jackson’s direction, snarling.

Her eyes flash, killer-blue, and Jackson’s both surprised and responsive, ice-blue flashing right back at her.

“Blue.” She says, frowning.

“Yeah.” Stilinski adds. “Another one in the ‘we murdered countless innocents – eh, sort of in his case – without being in control of ourselves properly’ club.”

Malia cocks her head, a rather animalistic gesture.

Jackson remembers he knows next to nothing about this girl, and doesn’t like that one bit.

“Who’s in it?” She says. “Aside from me, obviously. And you. And him.” She continues, adding the last two on as after thoughts.

Wait.

_And you?_

Stilinski shrugs. “…Suppose insanity counts, doesn’t it? People get let off on those and put in psyche wards instead of prison… so I guess when Uncle Creeper Asshole was wandering around he’d be put on charges of utter insanity. So.” He shrugs.

“Still an evil bastard though, and so he’s not in the club. Just us, I guess.” Stilinski continues.

_Just us, I guess._

Jackson frowns, involuntarily.

Stilinksi’s returning grin isn’t happy or nice; it’s sharp and dangerous looking.

“Yeah, Jackass. I’m a part of the club now. Aren’t I special?” Malia has empathetic eyes, and Stilinski seems slightly grateful. Only slightly, and Jackson figures their situations are vastly different.

“So what’s happened since I’ve been in London?” He inquires, faux bored.

Stilinski laughs, sharp.

“Oh man.” He starts. “Where to even _start?”_

“Allison’s dead.” He says, brazenly and faux-uncaringly. Jackson blinks, starts.

 _“What.”_ He demands.

Stilinski’s face is flat, void of anything Jackson can read.

“She’s dead.” He repeats. “Japanese demon stabbed her right through the stomach on – orders. _My_ orders.”

Jackson feels the side of him that’s his werewolf roar vengeance – except Malia growls first and pins Stilinski with a forceful glare.

 _“Not. You.”_ She says, with the air of someone who’s said this countless times.

Stilinski rolls his eyes. Jackson realises he’s had a kind of… detached air about him the entire time – it was one of the things he couldn’t quite put his finger on, one of the many differences in the teen to make him near unrecognisable to those who knew him more than in passing.

Jackson has the displeasure of being one of these unfortunate people. It’s terrible, he knows, but he endures it.

“I remember it.” He says, with the same air as Malia.

Jackson almost feels like he’s intruding, but he squashes that firmly like one would a particularly irritating bug.

Malia sighs, Stilinski scoffs.

They turn to him as one.

“Scott’ll want to know you’re back. A lot of stuff’s changed, Jackass. You’ll need to be updated, then you can kindly fuck off and leave us in peace.” Stilinski says, the same tone at the beginning and at the end.

“Gladly.” Jackson says snidely. “I have far better things to do than be around you lot.”

Stilinski’s lips quirk downwards again. “Careful there, Jackson. Your English is shining through… and won’t that ruin the image?”

With that Stilinski walks off. Malia turns and gets in the passengers side.

 _“You aren’t bleeding out any more, and I’m not gonna get us arrested.”_ She says.

 _“Good.”_ Stilinski replies.

Jackson can tell there’s more to her unwillingness to drive than that, but he really doesn’t care.

Jackson gets back into his car, and drives.

He supposes he has the annoying necessity to see the new Alpha.

And _fuck,_ if goddamn _McCall_ being an alpha isn’t a surprise, nothing would be.

(So therefore, it is.)

* * *

 

Jackson pulls up at the McCall house, and he sees a pretty shitty dirt bike rather than the very crappy pedal bike that McCall used to use, and he remembers it’s been a year; they’re all now seventeen, at the least, and so of course McCall would upgrade.

He knocks on the door, and McCall answers.

McCall junior. Scott, to be specific.

Ugh. He’s never thinking that ever again.

McCall blinks in surprise, shock or what have you, and speaks.

“Jackson.” He says, tone conveying said chemo signals; emotions.

“McCall.” He replies, upfront and flat in tone.

“You’re back.” McCall states the obvious, and Jackson near rolls his eyes.

“Apparently…” Here, Jackson sneered. “ _You’re_ the new alpha. Who’d you kill to get that, McCall?”

McCall glared at him. Jackson realised he looked less scrawny and more like an actual werewolf now; in that he was around the same height as Jackson.

Great.

“I didn’t _kill_ anyone. We don’t kill people. I grew into it.” He said, explained.

Jackson looked at him flatly.

“Yes, because becoming an Alpha is something you can _learn._ ” He said, drily.

Scott scowled. “I’m a True Alpha, Jackson. It happens every few centuries or so.”

Jackson isn’t even slightly impressed. Derek had been an alpha, and yet he’d still been completely useless (terrifying and unhelpful). Being an Alpha – whether ‘True’ or not – doesn’t instantly make you a good werewolf.

Unlike Jackson. Who wasn’t even technically a werewolf at first anyway…

If you think about it, he was, in a way, _special._

He doesn’t. Because he’s a werewolf, not – _that,_ and he’s rather the master of his _own_ self, thank you very much.

Scott invites him inside, sighing, and they go into the living room.

“I’ll call the others.” He says, sighs again.

Jackson thinks that McCall might be stupidly thinking of him as _pack,_ or some crap like that.

He lets him, though.

Because he needs answers. Obviously.

“Kira, Lydia, Malia –” Scott paused.

He didn’t say Stilinski. Which is odd.

Because although Jackson hates them both equally – he wasn’t kidding when he’d said screw each other.

They were that close. Seriously. Just, not _that_ close.

What he means is he’s surprised McCall isn’t immediately calling Stilinski.

Things really _have_ changed, haven’t they?

Jackson takes a seat, and McCall goes to phone ‘the others’.

Jackson waits.

The rest arrive in quick succession, and soon Jackson is annoyingly shoved into the armchair so he can be faced by the others and interrogated.

Even though it’s them that should be the ones interrogated, but whatever.

“Why are you back?” Lydia demands, as she always has done, and he thinks the saying ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’ is true because you forget all the things you didn’t like about a person, since you don’t spend any days in their presence.

“A job.” He said. Lydia frowned. “Your dad got a job, so you came back?”

“No.” He said, drawing it out. “The year abroad _was_ the job. We’re back, because it wasn’t a permanent move, Lydia.” He explained, bored.

She stopped frowning, though she did not look even slightly happy.

“I suppose,” Stilinski drawls from his place, leaning against the door frame, “You’ll need to be told some things that’ve gone down, yeah?” He asks the room at large.

No-one says anything. Stilinski sighs.

“Right. Up to me, then.” He mutters, and suddenly – for reasons Jackson cannot understand – there’s a scramble for everyone else to start explaining.

McCall stops them. He looks at Stilinski, and Jackson sees the tell-tale flaring of his nostrils that mean he’s scenting the teen’s chemo signals.

“I’m fine, Scotty.” Stiles says, with the air of someone far too used to this – and utterly annoyed by it, beyond belief.

McCall takes pause, sighs, and relents.

Stilinski’s smile is a normal one; crooked but not sharp, tired yet genuine.

“So. after you left, summer was pretty normal. Junior year, an alpha pack – which is a pack of a bunch of evil alpha werewolves – murdered a bunch of people, including Erica. Who was kidnapped along with Boyd. Isaac was rescued by some lady, which is why he’s not dead, just in France. So – alpha’s murdering. Also, Darach – an evil ‘dark oak’, basically a very, very bad druid who sacrifices people to get power – killed heather, dated Derek… which was his second psychopath girlfriend, go figure – killed Harris, as far as we know, killed Tara, the Deputy at the time, and a bunch of others. In the end, most the Alphas were dead but their leader we let live… for some reason, so he’s probably out murdering puppies or something equally evil, and the Darach – our English teacher – also died. During all of this, she tried to sacrifice our parents and, to save them, Allison, Scott and I all were pseudo sacrifices, and died a bit in an ice bath. Opened doors in our minds, which will become very important in a bit – so we saved our parents at a price, basically, and now my dad knows. Unfortunately,” He added, before ploughing on so nobody would interrupt him.

“So – that was that, for a very short time, and then stuff started up in October. I started going crazy, Scotty couldn’t control his shift, and was hallucinating being the horrible full shift peter wolf, and Allison was seeing her aunt literally everywhere, so that was lovely.” He paused, before continuing, piling the information on as quickly as possible.

“We find out about Malia, Allison nearly kills Lydia, Kira is introduced to all of us-”

“Wait.” Jackson interrupts. “Nearly kills Lydia?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says blithely, “Save your questions for later.”

He continues.

“I hallucinate being signed at by the whole of econ, which was lovely, Deaton is pretty useless as per usual-”

Jackson notes people frowning as Stilinski slips into present tense, and wonders why.

“Derek and Peter are tortured, we find Malia’s den, I go even more crazy and start wondering if I’m in a dream or not…” He trails off, frowns, then shakes his head and continues.

“Braeden saves Derek and Peter – the latter for reasons unknown, and other unimportant stuff happens.”

He pauses, then hurries on.

“Mischief Night,” He starts cheerfully, “Is full of attempted murder, which is lovely. Kira is kidnapped, we find out she can absorb electricity. Lovely. The Oni show up and Agent McAsshole interrogates us.”

He doesn’t take a breath, and now the others are looking ever so slightly worried.

Jackson doesn’t much care. He’s getting information in a condensed, no emotions format, which is good because he couldn’t stand, say, Lydia crying or something.

“I figure out that I’m the batshit crazy person that ordered Barrow to kill kira and hide in the chemistry closet, and I go to hospital, then rip some fireflies out of the chests of onis like a fucking evil badass –”

Everyone looks surprised. Jackson takes pause, and realises that maybe Stilinski’s more… exploding than telling information.

“I’m a – well, I hide in Malia’s den, dreaming I’m in Eichen’s basement, I get an MRI, I blow up a transformer on the hospital roof whilst possessed by an evil Japanese fox spirit hell bent on chaos, strife and pain – isn’t that lovely” He says, drily, before continuing “-I go missing for a few, as does Isaac, and Coach gets shot with a trap arrow possessed me planted, I frame Chris Argent and Derek for the murder of a guy I killed, a bomb that I planned to not kill them goes off and doesn’t kill them, The oni come after us and I twist a sword in Scott’s stomach and take all the pain he’s been taking all day and transfer it to energy, but thankfully Deaton’s the weird secretive asshole he is because he stabs me in the neck and poisons the nogitsune, which also had the awesome side effect of making me feel like shit _and_ like I’d been electrocuted… also Lichtenburg figures are kinda cool.” He shrugged, and moved on. Stilinski wasn’t really looking at them, then – more off into the distance.

“I willingly go put myself in Echo House, like the idiot I am, and end up being fully possessed by the Nogitsune because I didn’t want him to kill Malia. Ended up killing an entire hospital instead, but eh. Semantics.” He shrugged, but Jackson could smell his chemo signals, and there were many alarm bells – even when he wasn’t taking the sped up heart rate into account.

“I do a bunch of creepy shit, then stab myself in the stomach and don’t die, miraculously, but do release a bunch of flies which were just hanging out in there, apparently, that go onto infect Derek and Isaac and one of the twins into doing evil shit, but that’s to be expected from those things, right?” He chuckles mirthlessly.

“Moving on. People kiss, because apparently it’s the time for that or something, Peter is a weird creeper that apparently knows I play chess… which is weird. I pass out in a car park like an idiot, and wake up, then promptly vomit myself into a pile of bandages and emerge out like I’m some fucking zombie. Or someone else we know who burst out of the floor, but I’m not gonna think on that. So I end up wearing Corporal Rhys’ clothes – the previous host, this nogitsune has a thing for possessing men – and I kidnap Lydia.” He scowls. “Bastard. Anyway, I miraculously pass the test with the oni, and Dad goes to find Meredith. We go to Oak creek, save Lydia, and Allison dies via oni sword to the gut whilst I collapse in a tunnel with Lydia nearby and I watch on creepily from the side-lines, as you do if you’re an evil asshole, the Oni attack the sheriff station, I attack the hospital, we go to the school… because everything happens at the school, I realise we’re being duped into a hallucination, Aiden dies, My old body dies along with the Nogitsune, and now I’m in some kind of clone thing.”

He shrugged. “And now you’re up to date.”

Despite the fact that he hadn’t taken any time for a breath, Stilinski didn’t look out of it even slightly. He was also back to looking bored.

There was silence for a short while, and Jackson can grudgingly admit why.

“That wasn’t you.” McCall says, with the tone of someone who believes what they’re saying in entirety.

“Ho-ly _fuck,_ Scotty, how many times have we done this?” Stilinski demands, dragging out the ‘Holy’.

“You say that, I say ‘but I remember it’ and we go ‘round and ‘round in circles.” He shrugged. “You’re as likely to convince me as I am to convince you of certain things, so you might as well give up.”

He shrugs, and McCall sighs.

“I guess I’m all caught up then?” Jackson asks, blasé.

“You could at least be nicer about it, Jackson.” Lydia snaps. “Aren’t you even slightly sad? Allison is _dead.”_ Her voice broke on the last word, and her eyes glisten.

Fuck. Jackson can’t really deal with crying people.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stilinski flinch, momentarily dropping the uncaring demeanour, but it was up again in less than a second. It was only Jackson’s improved senses that let him see it. He wasn’t the only one, of course, and the teen was herded out by the Malia girl and McCall. ‘Kira’ followed.

And then, he was alone with Lydia Martin.

Which was just… wonderful.

“Why’d you contact us?” Lydia inquired.

If he were anyone else, that might’ve hurt.

If he were anyone else, his hurt would have been admitted to himself and might have even shown on his face.

“I saw Stilinski and… ‘Malia’, I think it was, in the hospital car park, and they told me about McCall’s Alpha status.” He rolled his eyes.

“I wanted to know how _McCall,_ of all people, became one.”

Lydia pursed her lips. “That’s it?” She asked.

He doesn’t really understand what she expects of him.

“That’s it.” He repeats, agrees. Because that really was it.

Her eye twitches.

“We can’t let you become an Omega.” She said, told him. “Packless you’ll go crazy.” She smirked. “Crazier than before, at any rate.”

He scowled. She smiled, that old, ditzy one that used to fool him once upon a time.

“You haven’t started with the best first impression. Malia won’t like you, you know. Not if you treat Stiles in the way you’ve always done.” She told him. “And Kira’s overtly optimistic at the worst of times, but even she can see an asshole when she meets one.”

Her smile is the same ditzy, sugary-sweet one as before, and it near sickens him. He supposes she means it to.

(Deep down, he reluctantly admits that he very well might deserve it, on some level.)

“It’s not like I was planning on being ‘ _friends’_ with you all.” He said, drily.

“You’re going to have to be, eventually.” She told him. “You know that, right? If you don’t want to be an Omega, that is.”

He doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a scowl, not so soon after his last one, but he does mentally curse her, because (as per usual) she is right.

(Damn her. Damn the incredible beauty and intelligence that is Lydia Martin.)

“I don’t have to _like_ it.” He hisses, lowly because there are two werewolves in the next room.

She smiles.

“I never expected you to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this little plot bunny.
> 
> Jackson is a Jackass and I literally despise him, and yet here's a story about him from basically his perspective like wtf Cesca seriously make your mind up.


End file.
